Sophie Hannah - Hurting Distance

‘You can’t even see what’s wrong with it, can you?’

I consider this. ‘On one level, yes. On another, no,’ I say honestly. ‘And the level on which it’s right is the more important one.’ I search my brain for things I could say that might help. How does a person like me get through to a person like Yvon? Her tolerance vanishes at the first hint of trouble and her mind shuts down. Like a country that has introduced strict emergency measures after a frightening and unforeseen attack. ‘Look, by wrong, are you sure you don’t just mean unusual?’ I suggest.

‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

‘Well . . . most people wouldn’t do what I’m doing. I know that. Most people would wait patiently, leave it in the hands of the proper authorities and hope for the best. Most people wouldn’t inflame the situation by claiming their missing lover was a dangerous criminal in the hope that the police would look for him more efficiently.’

‘That’s right! Most people wouldn’t!’ Her concern for me has mutated into fully fledged anger. ‘In fact, nobody would, except you!’

‘That’s what you object to, isn’t it? Because ninety-nine out of a hundred women wouldn’t do it, it has to be wrong, according to you!’

‘Can’t you hear how twisted that is? It’s the other way round! Because it’s wrong, ninety-nine out of a hundred women wouldn’t do it!’

‘No! Sometimes you have to be brave and do something that doesn’t fit in with the general pattern, just to shake things up a bit, to make things happen. If everyone thought like you, women still wouldn’t be allowed to vote!’

We stare at one another, both short of breath.

‘I’m going to tell them.’ Yvon takes a step back, as if she’s about to run to the house. ‘I’ll tell the police everything you’ve just told me.’

I shrug. ‘I’ll say you’re lying.’

Her face crumples. She amends her threat. ‘If you don’t tell them, I will. I mean it, Naomi. What the fuck’s wrong with you? You’ve turned into some sort of sick weirdo!’

The last time I had such direct verbal insults thrown at me, I was tied by ropes—first to a bed, then to a chair—and couldn’t do anything about it. There’s no way I’m putting up with it now from my so-called best friend.

‘I’ve done my best to explain it to you,’ I say coldly. ‘If you still don’t understand, tough. And if you tell the police what I’ve just told you, you can start looking for somewhere else to live. In fact, you can leave right now.’

I have crossed another line. I seem to be doing it all the time these days. I wish I could erase my harsh words, swallow them back into my mouth, into non-existence, but I can’t. I have to keep this defiant, set expression on my face. I will not be seen as weak.

Yvon turns to leave. ‘God help you,’ she says shakily. I want to scream after her that only a deeply conventional person would choose that as her last line before leaving.

9

4/5/06

JULIET HAWORTH WAS wearing a dressing gown today, a lilac satin one. There were sleep creases on one side of her face when she opened the door. It was three-thirty in the afternoon. She didn’t look ill; neither did she apologise for her appearance, or seem embarrassed to be caught in her nightwear in the middle of the day, as Simon would have been.

‘Mrs Haworth? DC Waterhouse again,’ he said.

She smiled through a yawn. ‘Can’t get enough of me, can you?’ she said. Yesterday she had been harsh and abrupt. Today she seemed to find Simon amusing.

‘That address you gave me in Kent—you lied. Your husband’s not there.’

‘My husband’s upstairs,’ she said, bending her head forward and swaying slightly, one hand on the round brass doorknob. She eyed Simon provocatively through her fringe. Was she trying to imply that she and Robert Haworth had been having sex, that Simon had interrupted them?

‘If that’s true, I’d like a word with him. Once you’ve explained why you lied to me about Kent.’

Juliet’s smile expanded. Was she determined to prove to Simon that nothing he said could worry her? He wondered why her mood had improved since yesterday. Because Robert was back?

She turned and shouted, ‘Robert! Make yourself decent. A policeman’s here who wants to see you.’

‘Your husband was never at twenty-two Dunnisher Road in Sissinghurst. They don’t know him at that address.’

‘I grew up in that house. It was my childhood home.’ Juliet Haworth looked pleased with herself.

‘Why did you lie?’ Simon asked again.

‘If I tell you, you won’t believe me.’

‘Try it and we’ll see.’

Juliet nodded. ‘I had a sudden urge to lie. No reason—I just fancied it. See, I told you you wouldn’t believe me and you don’t. But it’s the truth.’ She undid the belt round her waist, pulled her dressing gown tighter around her, and retied it. ‘When I first saw you, I thought I’d probably lie again today. I needn’t have told you that Robert’s upstairs. But then I changed my mind and thought, Why not?’

‘You’re aware that obstructing the police is an offence?’

Juliet giggled. ‘Absolutely. It wouldn’t be any fun otherwise, would it?’

Simon felt wooden and self-conscious. Something about this woman interfered with his ability to think straight. She made him feel as if she knew more than he did about his own thoughts and actions. Did she expect him to push past her and go upstairs in search of her husband, or to challenge her further about her flagrant lies? Naomi Jenkins had also calmly admitted to lying, when Simon had spoken to her yesterday. Did Robert Haworth have a thing for dishonest women?

Simon didn’t believe Haworth was upstairs. He hadn’t called out in response to his wife’s instruction to make himself decent. Juliet was still lying. Simon was reluctant to enter the house and allow her to close the door behind him. Something told him he might not emerge unscathed. He didn’t think Juliet Haworth would attack him physically, but he was having trouble, nevertheless, making himself enter her home as he knew he had to. As she undoubtedly wanted him to, for whatever reason. Yesterday she had been equally determined to keep him outside.

Simon wished Charlie were with him. Seeing through other women was her speciality. He’d have given a lot to be able to talk to her about Naomi Jenkins too, the way she’d changed her story. But Charlie was on holiday. And she was pissed off with him, however carefully she was trying to hide it. Simon remembered this suddenly with a sort of perplexed irritation. All he’d said was that he might get in touch with Alice Fancourt, just to see how she was. Surely Charlie wouldn’t mind, after all this time? Anyway, she had no right to mind. She wasn’t his girlfriend, never had been. The same was true of Alice, Simon realised with a vague pang of regret.

‘You might think this is funny now,’ he told Juliet Haworth, ‘but you won’t when we get to the custody unit and I show you your cell.’

‘You know what? I might. I think I really might.’ She lolled in the doorway.

Simon put his hand on her shoulder and pushed her to one side. She didn’t resist. He began to climb the stairs. The carpet beneath his feet was speckled with tiny white dots and patches that Simon couldn’t identify. He bent to touch one; its texture was chalky.

‘Stain-remover,’ said Juliet. ‘I can never be bothered to hoover it up, once it’s dried. Still, white powder’s better than a stain, isn’t it?’

Simon didn’t ask her to elaborate. He continued to climb the stairs, wanting to get away from her. Halfway up, he became aware of an unpleasant smell. By the time he’d reached the top landing, it was a stench. A familiar one: the meaty stew of blood, excrement and vomit. Simon felt a coldness in the pit of his stomach. The hairs on his arms prickled his skin. There was a closed door in front of him, and two other doors, half open, further along a narrow corridor.